


Break

by doodlebutt



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (and it's not all mairon's POV any more), ...okay whoops this is multi-chapter now, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angband, Blood and Gore, Eye Trauma, I hate myself for this, M/M, Torture, also includes curvo having a horrible time for somewhat different reasons, and by "it" i mean the rape and torture so don't read this if you don't want that either, basically my brain said "what if tyelko got captured" and i fucking ran with it, celegorm having a Very Bad Awful Time, graphic.......everything, mairon is ENJOYING HIMSELF, mairon is fucking awful, mairon's POV, please don't read this if you're going to give me shit about mairon enjoying it, the most horrific thing i have ever written in my entire life, torture plans as pillow talk, um where the fuck do i start
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlebutt/pseuds/doodlebutt
Summary: What if, at some point during the First Age, things went even more horribly wrong for the Fëanorians than they did in canon? What if Tyelkormo were captured and brought to Angband?You know the answer: terrible, terrible things would happen.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tt1973](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tt1973/gifts).



> DISCLAIMER: this is a fucking awful fic. i hate myself.
> 
> DISCLAIMER PT II: seriously, I know this is bad, I KNOW having it from Mairon's POV makes it even worse, honestly I've debated even posting this because it's near-impossible to frame the subject matter in the way it should be framed through the eyes of such a terrible character... but honestly, if you want something unproblematic, don't read a Mairon-POV torture fic.
> 
> edit to add: this has more than one chapter now. I sometimes change names depending on whose POV the chapter is, so I hope that makes sense.

Amusement coloured Mairon’s gaze as he paused in the doorway; faint golden light shimmered about his form, unless it were a trick of the darkness -- or of Tyelkormo’s exhausted sight, far past that point where reality begins ever so slightly to detach. He stepped delicately forwards across the stained and sticky flagstones and brushed one finger lightly over pale, bloodied skin, sharp nail catching in a recent cut high upon one starkly defined cheekbone. Tyelkormo did not whimper, but Mairon _felt_ the sound caught behind gritted teeth, and a smile flickered briefly across his lips as he watched the momentary internal struggle.

“Have my creatures been good to you, dear Turcafinwë? Have they treated you kindly?”

Mairon waited, listening to silence, watching the question register slowly behind the dim light in Tyelkormo’s eyes. He waited a full minute, taking in the delightful sight before him; the forced spread of those well-muscled legs (though less strong and defined than when he had arrived; it had been too long since he had seen joyful exercise out under the open sky), the streaks of dirt and blood crusted across each inch of skin in a mockery of the healthy tan he had borne in those early days, the cuts along the curves of his joints designed to fall open at each movement now slowly beginning to fester, the splinters poking roughly from his trembling sides where he had writhed under torment against the wide, crudely fashioned bench to which darkened leather straps now bound him. Mairon _smiled._

“Or did they hurt you, my sweet one?”

He leaned down and brushed his lips across a torn scab upon Tyelkormo’s chest, tongue darting out to disturb the shining fluids gathering beneath, and felt a swell of satisfaction at the involuntary jerk of Tyelkormo’s muscles, the creak of wood and leather as he flinched violently away. Softly then he trailed lower, fingertips and nails following the path of his lips, and delighted in the obvious desperation of his captive; the tightness of over-tested muscle as he strained against his bonds, the little twitching flinches at the molestation of each unhealed wound -- and of course, the frantic protestation of hröa and fëa as he lifted his face and delicately probed with two fingers between Tyelkormo’s legs.

“Oh, they _have_ prepared you for me. How very thoughtful of them.”

Mairon’s fingers slipped in blood and foul-scented oil as he pushed in further, and --

“No-!”

“No?” Mairon smiled. “You do still speak, then? I was beginning to wonder…”

Tyelkormo’s expression was twisted in rebellious revulsion, all spite and hot anger gathered behind his glare -- but Mairon could see the pulse fluttering too fast in his neck, and behind the rage in his eyes there hid pure terror. He had waited for this -- this was what broke the Eldar, what tipped their nightmares across the edge of horror into the abyss and sent their fëar fleeing if he did not bind them at the first attempt, and Melkor always insisted upon wringing every possible drop of information from them before allowing Mairon to gamble with their sanity.

_But I do not think that you will break entirely, dear one._ Mairon could feel Tyelkormo’s pathetic attempts to barricade his mind, could even read the fleeting regret at never heeding the advice of his brothers to study such matters with more care, and the satisfaction to be found in peeling back such desperately constructed defences was of the same manner as could be found in completing a taxing project to perfection, or in flaying a section of skin in one single, beautiful piece.

“I will not break at all!” Tyelkormo spat the words, eyes brighter now as fear turned to an echo of battle-haze within him, and the leather at his wrists looked near to cracking from the strain. Mairon wondered how it was that he could find the will to rebel so even with two fingers buried in violation between his legs. “Get out of my mind -- it is not yours to toy with!”

Mairon lifted one eyebrow and twisted his fingers, curling in a very particular manner, and levelled a pitying look at Tyelkormo as he stiffened and half-cried out in revulsion and despair.

“You are wrong, Turcafinwë. _Everything_ of yours is mine to toy with.”

Removing his fingers and shifting his robes aside, Mairon bared his own cock and stroked the length of it with that same hand; the mixture of blood and oil was slick upon his skin, and he bit back a groan as he slid one nail delicately across his own slit. He had anticipated this from the moment the Orcs had dragged Tyelkormo in, fighting and screaming words of hatred and revenge -- a wilder spirit even than his elder brother had been, and _this time_ one whom Mairon would not lose.

It was long past time for the House of Fëanáro to learn their place.

Tyelkormo screamed through gritted teeth as Mairon pushed into him in a single hard thrust, and the choked gasp as his breath ran out was deliciously familiar -- Mairon snared his flickering, insulted fëa with ease, noting with mildly surprised interest that despite the violation Tyelkormo did not entirely abandon himself as many had before -- but _oh,_ what an exquisite opportunity this provided. With practised skill only a little clouded by physical pleasure, Mairon pinned Tyelkormo’s fëa in the excruciating half-tethered state it had hesitated in until the very air throbbed with mental anguish and each breath of Tyelkormo’s half-conscious form was a silent, shuddering scream -- until the fëa, frantic with agony, sought even to return to the hröa rather than escape -- and the shriek of pain as Mairon pushed in after it with the binding brand so easily applied in such fragile moments made Tyelkormo clench around him in the most gratifying way.

Mairon thrust almost lazily in and out, dragging through tight heat and groaning occasionally at the familiar currents of pleasure beginning to curl through him; more of his attention was given to watching Tyelkormo recover from the incomplete disjunction of himself. He always thought the Eldar beautiful like this -- dizziness written plainly across their faces, blank horror in their dimmed eyes, limbs loose and unmoving as the fëa struggled to orientate itself after such brutal upheaval…

Awareness returned slowly, and Mairon saw tears gloss the edges of Tyelkormo’s eyes. They did not fall; what little remained of his determination to resist kicked in before that point, and Mairon found himself vaguely unsatisfied with the entire situation. He stilled, pausing in consideration, and Tyelkormo squirmed weakly beneath him in a futile attempt at resistance. And then -- _ah, yes._ That would be _fun._

He stepped back, pulling out in one smooth movement and watching as Tyelkormo managed to pull himself together enough to speak. His voice was hoarse and unsteady, and the corners of Mairon’s lips tilted upwards at the sound.

“Are you going to fuck off and leave me alone now?”

Mairon laughed, musical and eerie, the sound echoing flatly against the stone walls, and dropped his robes from his shoulders to the floor with a few swift tugs upon strategically placed laces.

_“Of course not.”_

He stepped lightly around the bench, trailing the fingers of one hand from Tyelkormo’s thigh upwards across his stomach, and plucked a small jar from a darkly metallic shelf high upon one wall.

“Now, Turcafinwë… You seem to be having some trouble performing, hmm?” Mairon pouted a little, twin furrows appearing in the smooth skin between his brows, and stroked Tyelkormo’s soft cock from root to tip with two precise fingernails.

“Don’t-”

“Ah - have you not yet learned your manners?” Mairon dug one nail into the delicate skin at the crease where thigh and groin met, drawing bright blood which slicked his finger and dribbled down to further stain the wood beneath. “I suppose I should expect that -- after all, darling Maitimo did tell me you were the stupid brother.” He pushed his finger deeper into the new wound, eliciting a stifled gasp of pain from Tyelkormo as he hooked his fingertip beneath a tendon and tugged lightly in admonishment. “I shall repeat the lesson for you.”

Withdrawing his bloodied finger, Mairon unscrewed the jar and removed a generous scoop of stiff white cream with his other hand. Then, with all the grace and softness of a lover, he leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Tyelkormo’s lips -- at the same time grasping his cock and generously coating it with the white substance. He felt the skin beneath his fingers begin to heat and swell already --

An inconveniently sharp burst of pain surprised Mairon as Tyelkormo sank his teeth into his lower lip with enough force to tear the flesh; he pulled back swiftly only to have a mangled shred of his own skin spat upwards into his face with surprising force. Anger flashed through him in a quick burst of heat, familiar channels flaring with the desire to _hurt_ \-- but then he looked down at the form beneath him, panting with barely suppressed panic and flushed with the forced arousal of the potent cream, and instead allowed a slow smirk to spread across his face. Hot blood dripped down onto Tyelkormo’s cracked lips, and Mairon’s smile grew wider at his futile attempts to evade it. The thick shred of skin he plucked from his cheek and considered, still coaxing further heat into Tyelkormo’s cock with his other hand, then pressed it slowly and deliberately into the fresh hole left in the crease of Tyelkormo’s hip, bright eyes fixed upon every twitch and grimace of his face, every brief hiss of breath between his bloodied teeth.

“That,” said Mairon, soft and dangerous, “was impolite.”

Tyelkormo made no reply.

Mairon slapped him, the _crack_ of it ringing back from the dark stone walls, and observed the dizziness in his eyes and the fresh blood welling upon his cheek in the pattern of his own rings with cold satisfaction. He considered, then, for a moment, savouring the fear in Tyelkormo’s expression and skimming the surface of his mind to watch the irrepressible speculation of his desperate thoughts -- Mairon enjoyed observing such terrified fantasies; the anxieties of his prisoners were often surprisingly original and a source of continuous inspiration for his own creativity.

The bench was easily wide and sturdy enough to bear Mairon’s weight as he knelt above Tyelkormo, straddling him and splaying his fingers across his bruised and bleeding chest in gleeful exploration of the many abrasions and scars to be found there, some deep and some shallow, many still slick with blood and other fluids -- Tyelkormo hissed in pain as Mairon’s fingernails slipped beneath a loose flap of skin to explore tattered muscle, and swore with eyes screwed tightly shut as Mairon tore the skin away with slow, gratifying pleasure. He laid the tattered strip delicately across Tyelkormo’s neck, smoothing the edges with blood-wet fingertips until it looked almost part of the living skin beneath, then dragged his hands downwards again until his fingers tangled in the cream-matted curls at the base of Tyelkormo’s shaft. Then he smiled, blood still trickling slowly from the exposed flesh of his lip, and lifted one hand to explore his own entrance with wanton, obvious enjoyment.

Tyelkormo could now no longer deny to himself what was happening, and the horror in his eyes set delicious sparks crawling beneath Mairon’s skin as he worked himself open with two slender fingers. The preparation was unnecessary -- his physical form was of course entirely subservient to his potent spirit -- but the sensation was almost as enjoyable as the revulsion in Tyelkormo’s expression when he let out a low, breathless moan and pushed in a third finger. A moment more, another soft groan as Mairon drew his tattered lower lip into his mouth and tongued the torn and bleeding surface -- then he withdrew his hand and encircled Tyelkormo’s cock in a tight grip, shifting above him in preparation --

“No!” Tyelkormo jerked suddenly away as he broke from his horrified trance; the restraints offered barely enough freedom to even attempt a struggle, but desperation coiled in the air about Mairon like invisible tendrils of smoke (even powerless, the Eldar could still _resist,_ and _oh_ how Mairon loved to allow such pitiful endeavours, revelling in the far superior strength of his own spirit). “Don’t -- get the fuck off me!”

Mairon paused, a smile curling the edges of his lips. “Are you going to ask nicely?”

Tyelkormo stared at him with blatant loathing, one cracked, bloodstained lip curled in a shaken approximation of a sneer. He drew breath to respond, but Mairon saw the intention behind his lips and shrugged with disinterest -- then began to sink down, lips parting in pleasure at the first nudge of the swollen head between his cheeks.

“Wait -- stop-!” Tyelkormo’s voice was shrill, rebellion worn thin by futile panic. Mairon paused, his expression one of patiently indulging a child’s whims, and met his wide eyes with slender brows lifted. “Please don’t -- _please-”_

Satisfaction spread like ember-warmth through Mairon, and the smile with which he looked down over Tyelkormo’s trembling body was entirely genuine. _This_ was what he had wanted, what he had waited for, what he had _desired…_

“Much better,” he purred, and sank down upon Tyelkormo’s cock in one smooth, fluid motion. _“Ah-”_

The _no_ that left Tyelkormo’s lips and mind was more than half a sob, shock freezing him for a single moment before he struggled uselessly to escape, twisting away at the very limits of his bonds and attempting to turn his entire body sideways in cringing evasion -- the motion of it, the delicious struggle between Mairon’s thighs, the tight, frantic ripple of half-wasted muscles -- Mairon moaned aloud, back arching and bright eyes casting thin shadows of eyelashes upon his flushed cheeks, and pressed Tyelkormo down into the bench with his full weight.

Tyelkormo, clearly horrified at the pleasure he had caused Mairon with his desperation, went utterly still, eyes squeezed shut and face turned away as far as was possible within the confines of his position. Mairon leaned forward, the soft exhale of his breath carrying another vocalisation of arousal at the shifting angle of the hard length inside him, and gripped Tyelkormo’s chin as he rolled his hips, tugging his face back to within an inch of Mairon’s own in time to moan against his lips, savouring the whimper forced from his throat as Mairon licked his own half-dried blood back from the edges of his mouth.

With another slow roll of his hips Mairon sat upright again, spreading his thighs wider to breach himself even more deeply, and moaned breathlessly as the head of Tyelkormo’s cock dragged over the tight knot within and sent molten heat cascading through him to pool deep in his core. It would be over quickly, now that Mairon had _exactly_ what he wanted -- but _ah,_ Tyelkormo was not looking at him.

“Open your eyes, Turcafinwë, sweetheart,” breathed Mairon, lust darkening the undertones of his voice, “or I will tear them out.”

Tyelkormo shook his head -- as far as he could manage with Mairon’s fingers tight upon his chin still -- and screwed his eyes further shut in a pitiful attempt at denial. Mairon let him keep the fantasy for enough time to allow him faint hope that it could have worked; first he built his pleasure to new heights, thighs tightening and lifting before sinking down again at the perfect angle to spark arousal like fire from flint, repeating the movements faster and moaning with desire at each drop of his hips, and then --

As lust crested within him and he felt the curl of impending climax, Mairon leaned down and drove the tip of one sharpened fingernail through Tyelkormo’s crumpled eyelid until he felt a visceral _pop_ beneath the pressure of his touch, and with the shriek of pain that tore from Tyelkormo’s lips he came undone, burning heat pulsing through him and painting scalding white across Tyelkormo’s chest and face, moaning with delight and completion as he rode through it with rough movements of his hips -- and as the wave faded he leaned forward with precise delicacy and lifted the lid of Tyelkormo’s other eye, stretching it until the pink beneath was clear to see, then with a brutal movement of his wrist and a strategically placed nail edge he ripped it away and watched as blood and tears mixed in a rush upon Tyelkormo’s face.

***

It was beautiful, the way in which Tyelkormo lay utterly limp as Mairon lifted himself off him, discarding the eyelid carelessly upon his torn chest; the pained, defeated hiss of breath between his teeth, the unhealthy flush of what little pale skin was left unmarred by blood or seed or other unnameable fluids, the glassy, shocked overlay of his fëa -- yes, this had certainly been a productive night.

Mairon supposed, as he stood at the end of the bench and fastened the complex lacings of his robes, that he could not exactly call what Tyelkormo was doing _crying._ It was more as though each breath held some impotent vocalisation of anguish and hatred -- and of course, one could hardly tell the presence of tears through the mixture of blood and viscera staining the sides of his face. He bent briefly to brush his mouth across the ruin of Tyelkormo’s eye, tasting the fluids from within upon his lips, then stood and strode to the door without a backwards glance.

He would send someone in to clean up and see to his prisoner in an hour or two -- or then again, perhaps he would not. After all, a mutilated corpse still stiff between the legs would make a fine trophy to present to the remaining sons of Fëanáro.

Mairon smiled as he closed the door behind him. No, he would keep Tyelkormo alive a little longer.

Just long enough to inform him of Curufinwë’s capture, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh. My lovely girlfriend (@fratboy-of-orome on tumblr, ingoldamn on here) _read this entire chapter aloud._
> 
> It's horrific. You should listen to it. 
> 
> [Here.](https://vocaroo.com/i/s0wEycqdicdM)


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...whoops. I guess this is a multi-chapter fic now. 
> 
> (no specific warnings or disclaimers for this chapter)
> 
> (except: you can easily read a few passing phrases here as pointing towards previous Celegorm/Curufin, but it's easy to interpret differently. I'm not your boss; read it however you like -- future chapters will be a bit less ambiguous about it though)

_Quiet_ was the only word Curufinwë wished to use to describe the throne room of Angband. It was accurate, at least; the silence was one of anticipation, of watchfulness, of greed, yet somehow he no longer felt the black cloud of oppression which had hung upon the gates like a tapestry of mental shadow. It was almost as though something here was _excited._

 _Excited for what?_ he did not ask himself.

He had been left alone, in chains secured to a heavy ring set into the floor (not rusted; there was an unearthly shine about it which put Curufinwë even less at ease), and instructed in a harsh, ear-dragging voice to _wait._ And he had -- with barely enough freedom to step forward two paces, there was little else that he could do.

Out of sight, yet far too close for comfort, footsteps rang out. Heavy, purposeful, strong enough that the stillness of the hall felt unnatural; the walls should surely have been quaking under such an onslaught of sound, yet no physical vibration entered the space. Curufinwë looked up, face set in carefully schooled blankness as he searched the shifting darkness for an entrance through which the steps would come -- and saw the _light._

Bursting forth from beyond a high-cut arch to the right of the hall came an achingly familiar blaze; silver and gold and every hue between echoed from the stones and burned apart the shadows like flames upon spiderwebs, and the deepest hall of Angband was lit in brilliant incandescence. Curufinwë had no eyes for the twisting, clambering shapes thrown into stark relief (some carved of stone yet some very much alive -- silent creatures of the walls and lofty heights, dark in a way which reflected nothing), nor for the varying shades of filth which spoke almost more of art than of neglect; no, his gaze was fixed upon that radiance which came now into full view, and the hot lines of his Oath pulling tight about his fëa near enough stole his breath. They were _beautiful --_

**“Interesting. Your brothers were just the same; even such terror as I command was not enough to draw their gaze from such fated light.”**

Curufinwë stood tall, refusing to tremble at the ringing of that loathsome, near-petrifying voice which seemed to bypass the ears and prevail directly upon the fëa, and forced himself to look Morgoth fully in the face -- slightly unfocused, just to the left of his terribly potent gaze; he knew better than to allow true eye contact.

“I am not afraid of you,” he lied, placing enough conviction into the words to trick even his own hröa into believing them. His voice sounded thin and high in comparison to the richly blackened tones whose essence still echoed about him, yet there remained enough confidence in the intent of the words and the defiant lift of his chin to carry the message.

Morgoth stopped, and smiled -- even through the thin layer of avoidance across Curufinwë’s sight he could sense the unwholesome gleam of it -- and the only sound to break the silence which followed was the too-loud rush of his own heartbeat in his ears.

**“Is that so?”**

Curufinwë could _feel_ the weight of that gaze upon him; it sought weakness, to push and twist and break, and he knew at any moment he could fail. Even that brief spark of doubt was enough that for a moment he almost faltered -- but no, he would not fall, he _would not --_

“It is. My Lord.”

The very words felt dark upon his tongue, as if by their utterance he stepped onto a path of shadow -- but no space could there be for doubt or hesitation in these moments. The thread of confidence that ran true through all his deeds was the thinnest it had ever been and the closest to dissolution it had ever come, inflated and buoyed though it was by half-truths and full lies and a myriad swirling plans collapsing and reforming to branch out anew in each moment. If he were to pause the frantic workings of his mind for even the length of a blink, there would be far too much space for the terror currently compressed to nothing in the corners.

The silence weighed heavy with consideration and Curufinwë felt increasing pressure upon his fëa; a slow-swelling landslide formed half of curiosity and half of blatant demand. He refused entry -- that he _could not_ risk -- and spoke again.

“Your servants would not listen when they came upon me. I wished to be brought before you willingly, as a fitting start to my service, but my request was denied.” The flavour of arrogance in his tone was a carefully calculated balance, the impact of which he could only hope had been correctly guessed at.

**“And why should I believe you? Favoured scion of Fëanáro, sworn against me and mine, you whose dearest brother I hold in my darkest vault; why should you seek to join me of your own free will?”**

The next words were crucial, and Curufinwë knew it. But he also knew this -- _the secret to a lie is to inhabit it as the truth, to give yourself over to it, to live in the deceit until it is no longer necessary._

“I know that the Noldor have failed. That we failed long ago, perhaps should never have begun; yours has always been the greater might. And I am no blind idealist like my brothers, clinging to hope when such is vain. I would become part of something with vision, with future; I would serve one who has ambition greater than my own. This I will never find among my own kin. As to the Silmarilli -- if I stand in alliance with the master of my father’s jewels, does that not bring my own hand as close to that light as I shall ever reach? My Oath has no timeline of fulfilment, and I shall not suffer unduly for setting it aside while I stand unobstructed within their radiance.” Curufinwë paused, barely tasting the bitterness of the words beneath the vertigo of sinking so fast and so deeply into the deception.

“You speak of my brother, of Tyelkormo. He is closest to me in heart and spirit, and I know he will see this wisdom if I should have occasion to speak with him. And if not -- I am sure that rumour has reached you by now of my selfish nature. My own survival -- and what I have to offer you -- is more vital by far than he.”

The last words rang into silence, and beneath layers of shielding falsehoods Curufinwë’s fëa cried out in rejection of his own words, feeling condemned by the very stones upon which he stood for such betrayal. Yet no sign of this reached his lips, no flicker of it touched the light of his eyes; the _plan_ was worth far more than any temporary anguish of spirit.

 **“And what have you to offer me?”** Morgoth’s voice held scepticism and disbelief -- but curiosity also, and Curufinwë seized upon that as the first crack which fits the thinnest end of a wedge.

“Information to begin. I am deep in the counsels of every one of my brothers, and through them many of my half-cousins also. I can reveal to you every secret -- far more than my brother knows, preoccupied as he ever was with hunting and bloodlust and other such.. distractions. And following that, I have skills which you would surely value. You have in your service many Maiar of Aulë, yet is it not said of the Noldor that in Valinor we soon surpassed our teachers? And am I not the greatest craftsman of that kindred yet living?” A pause, for effect rather than with expectation of an answer. “Think, my Lord, of all we could create together.”

A new voice rippled through the air, low and musical, and Curufinwë could not help his jerk of surprise as the dark stillness of the conversation was broken.

“Now this _is_ an interesting turn of events. _My Lord…_ it would seem that we have ourselves an ally.”

Sauron was smiling when Curufinwë looked at him, a cold smile of calculatingly intrigued appraisal which seemed precisely designed to unsettle. Curufinwë met his gaze with enough confidence to brush the edges of disrespect, and did not smile back.

It seemed as if Sauron barely moved -- yet Curufinwë found himself suddenly face-to-face with the unearthly shine of eyes like molten gold and a deep flush across high cheekbones that betrayed some form of delight (though he was certain it would have betrayed nothing at all if Sauron had not wished it so). He could feel the fevered heat radiating from the form before him, and the harsh metal of the chains with which he was bound grew quickly warm against his skin. And then -- he did not know how he had not noticed it before -- then he saw the Maia’s hands, shining darkly wet with fresh blood, and he clamped down hard upon his own reaction before even allowing himself time to name the emotion. It did not _matter._

Sauron lifted one delicate, long-nailed finger, glistening with juices in every shade from deep burgundy through to creamy rose, and touched it to Curufinwë’s cheek, ghosting over a fresh abrasion from the struggle that had led to his capture. Curufinwë did not flinch, nor imagine the colour of the slick trail he could feel upon his skin -- but why was there something so _familiar_ about this--?

The thick scent of blood filtered at last through the automatic layer of denial shielding Curufinwë’s senses from the truth. And of course -- _of course, how could he not, after all this time and all these hurts taken together, and everything else they had done in the dark_ \-- he _recognised_ it.

He wanted to scream.

The smile now wide upon Sauron’s face was one of satisfaction and glee, and Curufinwë knew he had betrayed himself. Dread began to congeal in his chest, heavy and buzzing with his quickening heart as he felt the fragile threads of hope begin to fray and snap --

**“Mairon.”**

Sauron turned, stepping lightly back across the great hall to where Morgoth was now seated upon his throne (a metallic monstrosity of sharpened edges and precise angles which Curufinwë avoided inspecting too closely, black as it remained even under the light of the Silmarilli) and leaving Curufinwë dizzy with barely repressed terror; he climbed atop Morgoth’s lap, straddling him with all the familiarity of a lover and none of the deference befitting a lieutenant, and whispered something into his ear which Curufinwë did not even attempt to apprehend. He did not want to think about this -- did not want to listen to the conclusions that his mind was screaming, did not want to _imagine_ \--

**“My lieutenant believes that you should be given the opportunity to prove yourself. I must be certain of your intentions before making use of what you can bring to our cause.”**

“Of course.” Curufinwë could barely keep his voice level now, let alone use it to encourage further power into his lies. “It is wise of a commander never to trust too readily.”

Sauron snapped his fingers, the sound wet and sharp, and Curufinwë’s chains fell away with a slithering clatter that echoed for a little longer than it should. Then he beckoned, looking back over his shoulder to where Curufinwë stood with that same smile still half upon his lips, and Curufinwë walked carefully closer on legs trembling from fatigue and suppressed panic.

“Yet you would have us trust you,” Sauron said, when he stood almost within arm’s reach of the two of them, close enough to feel the waves of heat and darker power shaping the air about the throne, close enough that the brilliance of the Silmarilli burned against his eyes and he had to fight the compulsion to lift his gaze and drown his thoughts in that pure blaze of light from a forgotten time, “you would have us believe your words hold only truth when you arrive within weeks of your beloved brother’s capture. I require proof, Curufinwë, that this is not simply an ill-thought attempt at rescue.”

Curufinwë met those shimmering eyes and forced terror and hatred to twist to insulted pride through his own look. He was still shaken, still refusing to think further of the blood which now stained his own face -- but he grasped at seeds of truth which had lain hidden at the centre of many a familial argument, and distorted them to false heights with such desperation that almost he believed himself.

“Would I offer freely the secrets of my own people if that were so? Would I speak of my own skill and ambition -- of my desire for power and freedom -- if all I wished to achieve by coming here was the retrieval of my brother? My own father, an age ago in Valinor, saw the merits of limitless creativity, and just as he chafed against the restrictions of the Valar, so too do I chafe against the bounds now imposed upon me by my own kin.” He did not stop to assess their reaction to his words but pressed on with reckless confidence -- as he would if it were the truth, he briefly thought, for now it _had_ to be the truth -- “Ask me to prove myself, my Lords, and I will show you my _intentions_ through a better manner than speech.”

Sauron laughed, a delighted sound which pulled hot fear through Curufinwë’s gut, and lifted himself delicately from Morgoth’s lap to stand before him with sparkling eyes. He caught Curufinwë’s chin with one blood-sticky hand, and closed all the distance between them with eerie swiftness.

“Perhaps I was wrong about you,” he purred, so close that Curufinwë felt dizziness close upon him again with the effort of stifling his horror. “Yes, Atarinkë, perhaps this will be even more fun than I first imagined.”

Curufinwë froze as Sauron leaned closer, as hot lips ghosted across the bloody trail left by his finger, as he felt wet fingers tuck wayward strands of his own hair behind his ear and linger momentarily upon the pointed tip.

“Come with me,” Sauron whispered, “and show me what you can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now this chapter has a [reading](https://vocaroo.com/i/s09lQOUnKKBr) as well. Go and listen to it; my girlfriend has a beautiful voice.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for another Very Bad Time (sorry)

It was colder than the throne room here. Stones wet with darkness formed the walls of the corridor; dank air flowed in a slow whisper across their surface and yet brought no change, and the ring of Sauron’s footsteps fell flat as the echo was swallowed in unnatural manner by the murk that lingered at the edges of Curufinwë’s sight. The only light came from Sauron himself; a faint golden radiance born seemingly of delight or amusement -- which of these it was, Curufinwë could not tell, but the air was thick with it as he followed Sauron deeper into the underbelly of Angband. He did not dare to think beyond each step he took, for if fear and suspicion should grow with his attention then surely he would be lost. Even now, he barely dared to believe that his lies had somehow carried him truly to a chance to _prove himself_ \-- he knew the tales of Angband as well as any, and in a world where expectations matched reality this would undoubtedly prove only to be a cruel trick, a falsehood in return for his own lie, a snare to raise his hopes.

Yet in truth he could not help the flicker in his heart, the near-painful sensation of tentative, delusional optimism which clung to life there -- he had thought all to be lost when he was captured, and most likely it still was, _and yet…_

The chance was surely fainter than those far-off stars glimpsed through Unlight upon the very day of their exile, yet for Tyelkormo he would willingly dare the impossible.

Then Sauron stopped, and opened the blackened door at the end of the corridor with a secretive smile, and Curufinwë suddenly _knew._

_No,_ he wanted to say, to scream -- but that would mean the end of all his lies and the death of even the most desperate of hopes. _No._ Whatever came next (and he knew now what it would be, despite the despairing battle of his own mind against the realisation), he would do it. He would do whatever it took to keep himself free, to keep himself alive -- to keep the slightest possibility of a future escape, for Tyelkormo more even than for himself.

***

Slowly, dimly, Tyelkormo became aware of light. It was difficult to tell; what little remained of his vision had deteriorated over the hours into only gritty, blurred pain, and the little muscles at the edge of his face continually twitched and clenched in futile attempts to blink. But there was light, now, or at the least some change in the darkness, and --

And his exhausted, distressed fëa, half wandering still in a dark dream, _recognised_ who had entered his cell.

_“Curvo -”_ he whispered, the name hoarse and dry upon his cracked lips -- then stifled a hiss of pain behind his teeth as cold water flashed across his face and over his exposed eye, resolving the dull shadows of his sight into brief, stinging clarity. And there -- there was his brother, deathly pale with bruises and scrapes marring his face and shining red marks like fresh blood in the shape of fingers upon his skin, with hair half unbound as if from a struggle and all protective armour and weapons stripped from him, with --

With Sauron standing beside him, a smile curling at his lips.

A breathless exhalation of pure denial fell from Tyelkormo in the shape of a sob, as what little hope and light remained shattered within him to nothing. He had thought that surely, _surely_ nothing could be worse than what he had already endured, but _this_ \--

“If you hesitate,” murmured Sauron, setting terror and rage twisting in Tyelkormo’s empty gut at the sensual manner of his touch upon Curufinwë’s skin, blood-dark fingers sliding across one bare arm, “I will show you myself how we play here in our Lord’s fortress.”

“I will not hesitate,” said Curufinwë, and Tyelkormo recognised the layers upon layers of lies running through his little brother’s voice. It was a game they had played, once; Curvo would lie, to his brothers or his mother or his cousins (never to his father), and Tyelko would be the only one who knew him well enough to catch it -- now the game was deadly, and Tyelkormo could only hope that his brother knew what he was doing --

A sharp, hot sensation sliced through his disorganised thoughts, and instinctively he tried to pull his hand away -- he struggled, caught at the wrist by the restraints that bound him to the bench, then froze as he felt cold fingers interlace with his own, pinning his hand to stillness with such familiarity that Tyelkormo’s heart ached with it. He turned his head, seeking Curufinwë’s face with vision that already was blurred and distorted once more, but his brother was not looking at him. And then Tyelkormo felt what it was to which Curufinwë was giving the same intensity of focus as he might a particularly challenging project in the forge.

It began as a burn around the base of his smallest finger, as if he wore a ring which suddenly had become sharp and twisting; his hand twitched under Curufinwë’s grasp, but movement was pointless and seemed only to deepen the pain. A hideous pressure grew at the edge of his hand, as if the very joint were being pulled from its housing, and he shook his head to clear clouded fluid from his vision in an effort to at least _see_ what was being done to him, and then --

He felt a terrible tearing sensation like the rending of coarse fabric from itself under strain, focused and compressed into a thin band of agony which moved with excruciating lethargy up towards the lowest joint of his finger; he saw Sauron lean closer, eyes alight with excitement and hands resting in possessive seduction upon Curufinwë’s slender waist; he watched, the scene blurring through a mist of tears, as his little brother pressed himself deliberately into Sauron’s touch -- a distraction, Tyelkormo realised, from the tremble of his blood-slick fingers as he pulled back raw skin with slow, forceful purpose.

Tyelkormo turned his head away, gasping through gritted teeth in an effort to stifle the low sounds of pain he had not even realised were his own, facial muscles twitching in pointless spasm at the instinct to screw shut eyelids he no longer had -- one at least responded, but all it achieved was a spike of pain so deep behind the ruined darkness of his left eye that he could not help the cry that forced itself from his throat. He heard a faint sound of disapproval, and a low murmur he could not catch over the river-roar that filled his ears, and then his little brother’s voice.

“Look at me, Tyelko.”

The first layer was cold, flat, uncaring and just barely steady. Beneath that was deliberate sweetness, a play into what both brothers knew Sauron would want -- and more hidden still, so fleeting Tyelkormo could not tell if the thought were simply his own imagination, was _I’m sorry._

He moved his head, unwilling and despairing yet knowing what would happen if he refused; he did not know who doused the side of his face in cold water once again but the stinging relief it brought was made bitter by what met his sight as the stained liquid drained away.

Curufinwë was still peeling back his skin, methodical and detached as if relieving a hare of its covering, the pain piercing through Tyelkormo’s finger to the bone and sending flares of agony across his hand and upwards even towards his shoulder -- yet for the briefest of moments his brother’s eyes met his own, and the shuttered horror Tyelkormo recognised there twisted his stomach into a tightly acidic knot. Blurring in the background of his vision was Sauron still, lingering like a watchful tutor at Curufinwë’s back yet pressed close in indecent intimacy, and as Tyelkormo stifled another cry of pain he pressed his lips to Curufinwë’s neck in a mockery of tender reward.

Thick rage curdled with the terror in Tyelkormo’s blood, blotting out all other sensation, and he drew breath to shout in anger as he saw Curufinwë grit his teeth and half-close his eyes -- but the air left him as a scream as the final length of skin detaching from his fingertip tore the nail from its bed with agonising slowness, and the sharply burning pain in his hand found no relief as the limp tube of bloodied flesh was finally lifted away.

The two figures beside him were dim and wavering as fresh tears blurred the edges of his sight yet left the uppermost parts of his exposed eyeball painfully dry, and he could not discern what they were doing -- he heard a gasp, and a murmur that was surely Sauron’s unpleasantly delighted inflection, and a soft sound from Curufinwë that would have sounded genuine to anyone’s ears but Tyelkormo’s own. And then Sauron spoke, clear enough for Tyelkormo to hear above the buzz of pain and loathing crowding all coherence from his mind:

“Don’t you think your dear brother should be happy to see you?”

Tyelkormo could no longer make out any detail by sight, but he could _hear_ the smile in Sauron’s voice. He felt fingertips cold against the sides of his face, slick with a warm layer of what could only be his own fresh blood, each touch so recognisable it felt painfully intimate.

He tasted cold metal pressed flat against his parted lips, and heard a whisper beside him which was dangerously far from composed.

“Smile for me, love.”

Curufinwë did not call him _love._ Had not called him _love_ since --

Since the day when everything had fallen apart, when Darkness had come and the Trees had failed and everything that mattered had been taken from them.

Since they had stood in the shattered kitchen at Formenos, wide-eyed and desperate and afraid, and Tyelkormo had said, unthinkingly, _don’t worry, love, Father will think of something._

Since Curufinwë had stared at him, half-invisible in the shadows of Unlight, and simply repeated _love_ in a tone which had said everything and yet nothing at all.

Since they had --

Too late, Tyelkormo realised he had forgotten to even attempt a smile.

He jerked away as the knife bit into his cheek, but Curufinwë had anticipated the movement and the blade followed the flinch of his face until it slipped from the gaping cut with a _snick_ familiar to Tyelkormo from every successful hunt of his youth. Bright blood flicked out sharply, splattering across old and faded stains as the point of the knife caught on the rough surface of the bench; it pooled under Tyelkormo’s mouth and soaked darkly into the wood beneath, and as Tyelkormo gasped in shock and pain it invaded the air rushing into his lungs -- he choked and spluttered, spitting blood and saliva with as much force as he could manage, and as a hand twisted into his hair and pulled his head to face the other way he clamped his teeth shut tight to try and block the flow of blood into the back of his throat. Desperate breaths hissed through nostrils flared in panic as he struggled in his brother’s grip, each one accompanied by a thick grunt of pain as Curufinwë dragged the knife through the flesh and fat of his other cheek, and as a fresh flood of hot blood drained downwards into his throat he gagged and retched and brought up thin bile -- Curufinwë wrenched Tyelkormo’s head to one side as he choked, allowing the foul-tasting swirl of fluid to spill out from the throbbing lines of his violated mouth, and as he coughed and spat his dizzy, exhausted mind felt the harsh grip in his hair as the echo of a tender caress. For one blissful moment his fëa drifted in memory, delusion blotting out all pain and horror -- then Curufinwë withdrew his hand, and reality returned with such agony that it forced a sob from what remained of his lips. He could no longer guess at what might happen next, could barely hear the soft voices of Sauron and his brother above the rushing in his ears and the haze of pain blurring his consciousness -- but no-one was touching him, and the only movement bringing fresh agony to his senses was the panic-fast beat of his own heart.

The voices faded suddenly, and Tyelkormo hardly knew if they had left or if his own mind had given up listening.

***

Curufinwë stood in the centre of the chamber and stared blankly at nothing. Sauron -- _call me Mairon, Atarinkë_ \-- had presumably brought him here, though in truth his mind was refusing to show any recollection of the past hours.

But he _knew_ what had happened.

He walked as if in a dream to the basin at the edge of the room and poured cold water into it from a full jug, leaving bloody fingerprints upon the glass. The water turned red as soon as he touched it, but in the dim light he could almost pretend it was some other colour.

The mechanics of washing his hands was mundane enough to be automatic. But the tightness in his chest which constricted viciously at each little slip of his fingers, at each reminder of the differing textures of fresh water and congealing blood -- before long Curufinwë could barely draw breath, and his hands were trembling under the dark surface of the water as he scrubbed fingers across skin with frantic, numbing force.

He drained the basin and filled it again with shaking hands, plunging them back into the chill water so he would not have to look at the blood still dark beneath his fingernails. He tried to breathe, to gather himself -- he knew Sauron would be watching, somewhere, _somehow_ \-- but each breath burned in his throat, and his eyes stung with the effort of self-control, and the muscles of his legs trembled with exhaustion and refused to hold him steady. A shallow sob passed his lips, barely more than a breath, and he blinked upwards at the shadowed ceiling in a last-ditch effort at restraint. He thought, stubbornly and desperately, of nothing at all; of the blank face of clouds on days of gloom and drizzle, of the constant, unchanging sound of wind in tree-leaves, of a clean sheet of parchment, fresh and unstained and waiting for new ideas.

It took until he could no longer feel his hands in the icy, pink-stained water, but it worked. One steady breath, held until it ached and then released in a smooth rush, then he lifted his hands from the basin and dried them. They were very pale now, but Curufinwë did not look at them as he cleaned his face and changed his clothes for the fresh ones laid out for him (ink-black and deep red, colours which suited him well; he did not look at the designs upon them), nor as he unbound and combed through his hair with methodical routine before styling it back once more, pulled away from his face in tight braids which met at the back and fell almost to his thighs in elegant black ropes.

Curufinwë paused, the ends of his hair held between his fingertips, and looked around the room for the first time. There was a four-poster bed draped with thin, shimmering black fabrics, an ornately carved desk with a matching chair of some dark, nameless wood, and a plate of unfamiliar food set upon a small table beside the door. The food was of no interest -- but beside it lay a knife and fork, and the knife looked sharp enough for his purpose.

With perfectly steady hands he cut through each braid just above his shoulders, leaving them where they fell in dark coils upon the carpeted floor, then tied off the ends in their new positions. He considered the knife for a few moments more, possibilities flickering through his mind -- but then set it back in its original place. A solution for himself was not a solution for his brother.

***

In the hours that followed, Curufinwë assessed the probability of success of at least fifty different plans, and discarded every single one of them as hopelessly futile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This post](https://verymaedhros.tumblr.com/post/168521533742/elf-hair-concept) is the reason why Curufin cuts his hair, if you're curious.
> 
> And there is a [reading](https://vocaroo.com/i/s1yfFqZcDIGX) for this chapter too, which physically pained me to listen to; thanks, babe.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude. No torture here.

**“Mairon.”**

No words were technically needed between Angband’s lords, yet always his own name upon his master’s lips set lust curling deep within Mairon’s core. He tilted his head as he stepped into the bedchamber, baring his neck for the press of invisible lips as he dropped his robes to the floor and letting out a breathy moan as bright hair cascaded down the soft surface of his back. The delicate sensation merged with unseen touches which ghosted across his bare skin, varying in pressure and intent and leaving stiffly raised hairs in their wake. Across the room lay Melkor, already naked upon the great bed which filled more than half of the echoing space; his form drew all the light from the liquid flames set into the walls and left the rest of the room draped in heavy shadow. Mairon groaned with pleasure as he grew quickly hard under the intensity of that gaze, heat flooding between his thighs and deep into the base of his stomach. _This_ was not why he had come here, in the long years now lost to time, but _oh,_ it was more than half of the reason why he had stayed.

Melkor stood, so tall that Mairon’s gaze fell naturally upon the dark bars of metal piercing his nipples, and pulled Mairon close to him with strong hands tight enough upon his hips almost to bruise. Another moan fell from Mairon’s lips at the sensation of his master’s cool skin against his own -- and was caught by the press of a kiss that claimed and promised and set every nerve aflame. He felt hands upon his thighs, lifting, spreading; the room turning about them, silk sheets against the sensitive skin of his back -- it was intoxicating, to be possessed by such power greater even than himself, and he tilted his hips upwards with a cry as one wide hand closed about his cock, roughened skin so perfectly familiar, and very nearly found immediate release from simply a touch and a thought --

**“Mairon, hush. Not yet.”** Melkor’s tone was low, powerful, impossible to resist, and Mairon _keened_ as his cock throbbed and leaked wet heat into the space between them. Strong fingers swiped through the stickiness upon his stomach, gathering all the preparation that would be needed for such well-crafted forms as their own, then pressed between his legs -- two to begin, swift and confident in their motions, and Mairon’s breaths were little more than desperate gasps and brief cries of need. But it was not enough -- Mairon felt himself instinctively opening, the delicious burn fading to slick pleasure even with a third finger added, and the need for _more_ pulsed stronger through him with each passing moment.

“Please, Melkor, _please_ -” Breathless, against skin which tasted of ash and raw, metallic power, then a wild cry which echoed against the jagged designs of the ceiling as Melkor finally pushed into him -- Mairon felt the burning stretch of his thick cock as deep as it was possible to feel, spreading his hips from the inside at the same time as Melkor’s weight pushed his thighs further apart, and _oh_ it was _so good,_ so overwhelming; Mairon’s nails scraped red lines into Melkor’s back, and Melkor thrust _hard_ into him in response, driving deep against that perfect spot within him with such force that they both cried out -- Melkor’s voice low and lust-filled, Mairon’s moan loud and tinged with pain in the perfect balance which set sparks flying within him, pleasure roaring between them like storm-fanned flames. Once more, twice, three times, rough and fast and swelling suddenly larger within Mairon with what little power of control over his form still remained to him -- and Mairon _screamed,_ back arching from the sheets and shaking hips pressing closer than should even be possible as he came in scalding bursts between them, riding the dizzying flares of pleasure until he could barely breathe. And even through the haze he could sense Melkor’s need, burning dark between them as he fucked Mairon through his climax, the pace unforgiving and painful and _exactly_ what Mairon loved best, and as he spent himself utterly he pulled tight every muscle he could still control and pressed his lips to Melkor’s in a demanding, unyielding kiss -- and Melkor groaned and shuddered and _came_ with all the force befitting the greatest of the Ainur, and Mairon cried out against his open mouth as he felt the hot surge inside of him, enough to swell the smooth skin between his hips and leave him full and sated as nothing else possibly could.

***

They fucked six more times before the Sun set, and by the end Mairon could barely even raise himself from the bed -- not that he would wish to. There were no pressing matters requiring immediate attention, and besides -- it would do Curufinwë good to be forced to wait a little longer.

Mairon smiled and stretched, catlike and vain in obvious display of the bruises and scratches decorating his skin. His hips ached, and he felt heavy and warm inside, and the sheets around him were stained and torn -- such effects could of course be removed with little more than the ease of a thought, but Mairon _liked_ it. Sensations such as these were never to be found among Valinor’s culture of refinement and restraint, and where was satisfaction or joy to be found in such a limited experience? If only all the Maiar still remaining there could know the true potency of the senses, the hidden potential for pain and pleasure within each piece of this gorgeous, hedonistic world… They would be content no longer to hide behind their mountainous walls and merely observe.

But such speculation was without use, Melkor reminded him with a darkly chastising thought, and Mairon turned his attention to more consequential matters.

_What would you like me to do with Curufinwë?_

**_I doubt he has significantly more information to offer us than his brother did. But it will be clearer coming willingly from his own lips, while he still holds to this delusional attempt at flattery._ **

Mairon smirked, and took one of Melkor’s great hands between his own, bringing the fingers to his lips and drawing gentle, sensual circles with his tongue upon the blackened skin.

_I should like to see how far we can push him. It will make the eventual conclusion all the sweeter…_

**_How did he perform for you, with Turcafinwë?_ **

_Adequate. He has creative potential, and concealed enough of his horror to avoid the utter ruin of his plans._

**_He is a good liar._ **

_Indeed. Much better than others who have attempted the same. I know his methods well… With time, his fëa will take on his own lies as truths._

**_But you are not patient enough to wait for that._ **

_No. I have already planned how we shall end it long before that point -- see…_

_{detailed images}_

**_Ahh. Yes, Mairon, that will certainly bring satisfaction to us both. Ever your imagination surpasses that of any other._ **

Mairon took Melkor’s fingers deeper into his mouth, tasting himself upon the rough skin as his cheeks hollowed and jagged nails brushed the back of his throat. He groaned in appreciation, both at the sensation and at the telepathic praise, and shifted his hips to better feel the lingering ache of their activities within him.

_But first, I want to watch him fall further. I want him to break himself upon our darkness._

**_Of course. You shall have all that you wish from him._ **

_I want him to know how utterly he has failed before he even knows the futility of his current quest. I want --_

_{vivid image}_

**_Yes. I myself should find pleasure in that sight._ **


End file.
